Leiber, Fritz - Saga of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser 07 - The Knight and Knave of Swords

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The Knight and Knave of Swords [Book 7 of the "Fafhrd and Gray Mouser" series]

by Fritz Leiber

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THE GREEN MILLENIUM

GATHER, DARKNESS!

SWORDS AND DEVILTY

SWORDS AGAINST DEATH

SWORDS IN THE MIST

SWORDS AGAINST WIZARDY

THE SWORDS OF LANKHMAR

SWORDS AND ICE MAGIC

THE KNIGHT AND KNAVE OF SWORDS

THE WANDERER

--------

*I: Sea Magic*

*.1.*

On the world of Nehwon and the land of Simorgya, six days fast sailing

south from Rime Isle, two handsome silvery personages conversed intimately yet

tensely in a dimly and irregularly lit hall of pillars open overhead to the

darkness. Very strange was that illumination --greenish and yellowish by

turns, it seemed to come chiefly from grotesquely shaped rugs patching the

Stygian floor and lapping the pillars' bases and also from slowly moving

globes and sinuosities that floated about at head height and wove amongst the

pillars, softly dimming and brightening like lethargic and plague-stricken

giant fireflies.

Mordroog said sharply, "Caught you that thrill, sister? -- faint and

far north away, yet unmistakably _ours._"

Ississi replied eagerly, "The same, brother, as we felt two days agone

-- our mystic gold dipped deep in the sea for a space, then out again."

"The same indeed, sister, though this time with a certain ambiguity as

to the out -- whether that or otherwise gone," Mordroog assented.

"Yet the now-confirmed clue is certain and bears only one

interpretation: our chiefest treasures, that were our most main guards, raped

away long ages agone -- and now at long last we know the culprits, those

villainous pirates of Rime Isle!" breathed Ississi.

"Long, long ages agone, before ever Simorgya sank (and the fortunate

island kingdom became the dark infernal realm) -- and their vanishment the

hastener or very agent of that sinking. But now we have the remedy -- and who

knows when our treasure's back what long-sunken things may rise in spouting

wrath to consternate the world? Your attention, sister!" snapped Mordroog.

The abysmal scene darkened, then brightened as he dipped his hand into

the pouch at his waist and brought it out again holding something big as a

girl's fist. The floating globes and sinuosities moved inward inquisitively,

jogging and jostling each other. Their flaring glows rebounded through the

murk from a lacy yet massy small gold globe showing between his thin clawed

silver fingers -- its twelve thick edges like those of a hexahedron embedded

in the surface of a sphere and curving conformably to that structure. He

proffered it to her. The golden light gave the semblance of life to their

hawklike features.

"Sister," he breathed, "it is now your task, and geas laid upon you, to

proceed to Rime Isle and regain our treasure, taking vengeance or not as

opportunity affords and prudence counsels -- whilst I maintain here, unifying

the forces and regathering the scattered allies against your return. You will

need this last cryptic treasure for your protection and as a hound to scent

out its brothers in the world above."

Now for the first time Ississi seemed to hesitate and her eagerness to

abate.

"The way is long, brother, and we are weak with waiting," she

protested, wailing. "What was once a week's fast sailing will be for me three

black moons of torturesome dark treading, press I on ever so hard. We have

become the sea's slaves, brother, and carry always the sea's weight. And I

have grown to abhor the daylight."

"We have also the sea's strength," he reminded her commandingly, "and

though we are weak as ghosts on land, preferring darkness and the deep, we

also know the old ways of gaining power and facing even the sun. It is your

task, sister. The geas is upon you. Salt is heavy but blood is sweet. Go, go,

go!"

Wherewith she snatched the goldy ghost-globe from his grip, plunged it

into her pouch, and turning with a sudden flirt made off, the living lamps

scattering to make a dark northward route for her.

With the last "Go," a small bubble formed at the corner of Mordroog's

thin, snarling, silvery lips, detached itself from them, and slowly grew in

size as it mounted from these dark deeps up toward the water's distant

surface.

*.2.*

Three months after the events aforenarrated, Fafhrd was at archery

practice on the heath north of Salthaven City on Rime Isle's southeastern

coast -- one more self-imposed, self-devised, and self-taught lesson of many

in learning the mechanics of life for one lacking a left hand, lost to Odin

during the repulse of the Widder Sea-Mingols from the Isle's western shores.

He had firmly affixed a tapering, thin, finger-long iron rod (much like a

sword blade's tang) to the midst of his bow and wedged it into the

corresponding deep hole in the wooden wrist heading the closefitting leather

stall, half the length of his forearm and dotted with holes for ventilation,

that covered his newly healed stump -- with the result that his left arm

terminated in a serviceably if somewhat unadjustably clutched bow.

Here near town the heath was grass mingled with ankle-high heather,

here and there dotted with small clumps of gorse, in and out of which the

occasional pair of plump lemmings played fearlessly, and man-high gray

standing stones. These last had perhaps once been of religious significance to

the now atheistical Rime Islers -- who were atheists not in the sense that

they did not believe in gods (that would have been very difficult for any

dweller in the world of Nehwon) but that they did not socialize with any such

gods or hearken in any way to their commands, threats, and cajolings. They

(the standing stones) stood about like so many mute gray grizzle bears.

Except for a few compact white clouds a-hang over the isle, the late

afternoon sky was clear, windless, and surprisingly balmy for this late in

autumn, in fact on the very edge of winter and its icy, snow-laden winds.

The girl accompanied Fafhrd in his practicing. The silver-blond

thirteen-year-old now trudged about with him collecting arrows -- half of them

transfixing his target, which was a huge ball. To keep his bow out of the way

Fafhrd carried it as if over his shoulder, maimed left arm closely bent

upward.

"They ought to have an arrow that would shoot around corners," Gale

said apropos of hunting behind a standing stone. "That way you'd get your

enemy if he hid behind a house or a tree trunk."

"It's an idea," Fafhrd admitted.

"Maybe if the arrow had a little curve in it -- " she speculated.

"No, then it would just tumble," he told her. "The virtue of an arrow

lies in its perfect straightness, its -- "

"You don't have to tell me that," she interrupted impatiently. "I keep

hearing all about that, over and over, from Aunt Afreyt and cousin Cif when

they lecture me about the Golden Arrow of Truth and the Golden Circles of

Unity and all those." The girl was referring to the closely guarded gold ikons

that had been from time immemorial the atheist-holy relics of the Rime Isle

fisherfolk.

That made Fafhrd think of the Golden Cube of Square Dealing, forever

lost when the Mouser had hurled it to quell the vast whirlpool which had

vanquished the Mingol fleet and threatened to sink his own in the great sea

battle. Did it lie now in mucky black sea bottom near the Beach of Bleached

Bones, or had it indeed vanished entire from Nehwon-world with the errant

gods, Odin and Loki?

And that in turn made him wonder and worry a little about the Gray

Mouser, who had sailed away a month ago in _Seahawk_ on a trading expedition

to No-Ombrulsk with half his thieves and _Flotsam_'s Mingol crew and Fafhrd's

own chief lieutenant Skor. The little man (Captain Mouser, now) had planned on

getting back to Rime Isle before the winter blizzards.

Gale interrupted his musings. "Did Aunt Afreyt tell you, Captain

Fafhrd, about cousin Cif seeing a ghost or something last night in the council

hall treasury, which only she has a key to?" The girl was holding up the big

target bag clutched against her so that he could pull out the arrows and

return them over shoulder to their quiver.

"I don't think so," he temporized. Actually, he hadn't seen Afreyt

today, or Cif either for that matter. For the past few nights he hadn't been

sleeping at Afreyt's but with his men and the Mouser's at the dormitory they

rented from Groniger, Salthaven's harbor master and chief councilman, the

better to supervise the mischievous thieves in the Mouser's absence -- or at

least that was an explanation on which he and Afreyt could safely agree. "What

did the ghost look like?"

"It looked very mysterious," Gale told him, her pale blue eyes widening

above the bag which hid the lower part of her face. "Sort of silvery and dark,

and it vanished when Cif went closer. She called Groniger, who was around, but

they couldn't find anything. She told Afreyt it looked like a princess-lady or

a big thin fish."

"How could something look like a woman and a fish?" Fafhrd asked with a

short laugh, tugging out the last arrow.

"Well, there are mermaids, aren't there?" she retorted triumphantly,

letting the bag fall.

"Yes," Fafhrd admitted, "though I don't expect Groniger would agree

with us. Say," he went on, his face losing for a bit its faintly drawn,

worried look, "put the target bag behind that rock. I've thought of a way to

shoot around corners."

"Oh, good!" She rolled the target bag close against the back of one of

the ursine, large gray stones and they walked off a couple of hundred yards.

Fafhrd turned. The air was very still. A distant small cloud hid the low sun,

though the sky was otherwise very blue and bright. He swiftly drew an arrow

and laid it against the short wooden thumb he'd affixed to the bow near its

center just above its tang. He took a couple of shuffling steps while his

frowning eyes measured the distance between him and the rock. Then he leaned

suddenly back and discharged the arrow high into the air. It went up, up, then

came swiftly down -- close behind the rock, it looked.

"That's not around a corner," Gale protested. "Anybody can do that. I

meant sideways."

"You didn't say so," he told her. "Corners can be up or down or

sideways right or left. What's the difference?"

"Up-corners you can drop things around."

"Yes, indeed you can!" he agreed and in a sudden frenzy of exercise

that left him breathing hard sent the rest of the arrows winging successively

after the first. All of them seemed to land close behind the standing stone --

all except the last, which they heard clash faintly against rock -- but when

they'd walked up to where they could see, they found that all but the last

arrow had missed. The feathered shafts stood upright, their points plunged

into the soft earth, in an oddly regular little row that didn't quite reach

the target-bag -- all but the last, which had gone through an edge of the bag

at an angle and hung there, tangled by its three goosefeather vanes.

"See, you missed," Gale said, "all but the one that glanced off the

rock."

"Yes. Well, that's enough shooting for me," he decided, and while she

pulled up the arrows and carefully teased loose the last, he loosened the

bow's tang from its wood socket, using the back of his knife blade as a pry,

then unstrung the bow and hung it across his back by its loose string around

his chest, then fitted a wrought-iron hook into the wrist-socket, wedging it

tight by driving the head of the hook against the stone. He winced as he did

that last, for his stump was still tender and the dozen last shots he'd made

had tried it.

*.3.*

As they walked toward the low, mostly red-roofed homes of Salthaven,

the setting sun on their backs, Fafhrd studied the gray standing stones and

asked Gale, "What do you know about the old gods Rime Isle had? -- before the

Rime men got atheism."

"They were a pretty wild, lawless lot, Aunt Afreyt says -- sort of like

Captain Mouser's men before they became soldiers, or your berserks before you

tamed them down." She went on with growing enthusiasm, "They certainly didn't

believe in any Golden Arrow of Truth, or Golden Ruler of Prudence, or Little

Gold Cup of Measured Hospitality -- mighty liars, whores, murderers, and

pirates, I guess, all of them."

Fafhrd nodded. "Maybe Cif's ghost was one of them," he said. A tall,

slender woman came toward them from a violet-toned house. When Afreyt neared

them she called to Gale, "So that's where you were. Your mother was

wondering." She looked at Fafhrd. "How did the archery go?"

"Captain Fafhrd hit the target almost every time," Gale answered for

him. "He even hit it shooting around corners! And I didn't help him a bit

fitting his bow or anything."

Afreyt nodded.

Fafhrd shrugged.

"I told Fafhrd about Cif's ghost," Gale went on. "He thought it might

be one of the old Rime goddesses -- Rin the Moon-runner, one of those. Or the

witch queen Skeldir."

Afreyt's narrow blond eyebrows arched. "You go along now, your mother

wants you."

"Can I keep the target for you?" the girl asked Fafhrd.

He nodded, lifted his left elbow, and the big ball dropped down. Gale

rolled it off ahead of her. The target-bag was smoky red with dye from the

snowberry root, and the last rays of the sun setting behind them gave it an

angry glare. Afreyt and Fafhrd each had the thought that Gale was rolling away

the sun.

When she was gone he turned to Afreyt, asking, "What's this nonsense

about Cif meeting a ghost?"

"You're getting skeptical as an Isler," she told him unsmiling. "Is

something that robs a councilman of his wits and half his strength nonsense?"

"The ghost did that?" he asked as they began to walk slowly toward

town.

She nodded. "When Gwaan pushed into the dark treasury past Cif, he was

clutched and struck senseless for an hour's space -- and has since not left

his bed." Her long lips quirked. "Or else he stumbled in the churning shadows

and struck his head 'gainst the wall -- there's that possibility too, since he

has lost his memory for the event."

"Tell me about it more circumstantially," Fafhrd requested.

"The council session had lasted well after dark, for the waning gibbous

moon had just risen," she began. "Cif and I being in attendance as treasurer

and scribe, Zwaaken and Gwaan called on Cif for an inventory of the ikons of

the virtues -- ever since the loss of the Gold Cube of Square Dealing (though

in a good cause) they've fretted about them. Cif accordingly unlocked the door

to the treasury and then hesitated on the threshold. Moon-light striking in

through the small barred window (she told me later) left most of the treasure

chamber still in the dark, and there was something unfamiliar about the

arrangement of the things she saw that sounded a warning to us. Also, there

was a faint noxious marshy scent --"

"What does that window look on?" Fafhrd asked.

"The sea. Gwaan pushed past her impatiently (and _most_

discourteously), and then she swears there was a faint blue smoke like muted

lightning and in that trice she seemed to see a silent skinny figure of silver

fog embrace Gwaan hungrily. She got the impression, she said, of a weak ghost

seeking to draw strength from the living. Gwaan gave a choking cry and pitched

to the floor When torches were brought in (at Cif's behest) the chamber was

otherwise empty, but the Gold Arrow of Truth had fallen from its shelf and lay

beneath the window, the other ikons had been moved slightly from their places,

as if they'd been feebly groped, while on the floor were narrow patches, like

footprints, of stenchful black bottom muck."

"And that was all?" Fafhrd asked as the pause lengthened. When she'd

mentioned the thin silvery fog figure, he'd been reminded of someone or

something he'd seen lately, but then in his mind a black curtain fell on that

particular recollection-flash.

Afreyt nodded. "All that matters, I guess. Gwaan came to after an hour,

but remembered nothing, and they've put him to bed, where he stays. Cif and

Groniger have set special watch on all the Rimic gold tonight."

Suddenly Fafhrd felt bored with the whole business of Cif's ghost. His

mind didn't want to move in that direction. "Those councilmen of yours, all

they ever worry about is gold -- they're misers all!" he burst out at Afreyt.

"That's true enough," she agreed with him -- which annoyed Fafhrd for

some reason. "They still criticize Cif for giving the Cube to the Mouser along

with the other moneys in her charge, and talk still of impeaching her and

confiscating her farm -- and maybe mine."

"Ah, the ingrates! And Groniger's one of the worst -- he's already

dunning me for last week's rent on the men's dormitory, barely two days

overdue."

Afreyt nodded. "He also complains your berserks caused a disturbance

last week at the Sea Wrack tavern."

"Oh he does, does he?" Fafhrd commented, quieting down.

"How are the Mouser's men behaving?" she asked.

"Pshawri keeps 'em in line well enough," he told her. "Not that they

don't need my supervision while the Gray One's away."

"_Seahawk_ will have returned before the gales, I'm sure of that," she

said quietly.

"Yes," Fafhrd said.

They had come opposite her house and now she went inside with a smiled

farewell. She did not invite him to dinner, which was somehow annoying,

although he would have refused; and although she had glanced once or twice

toward his stump, she had not asked how it fared --which was tactful, but also

somehow annoying.

Yet the irritation was momentary, for her mention of the Sea Wrack had

started his mind off in a new direction which fully occupied it as he walked a

little more rapidly. The past few days he had been feeling out of sorts with

almost everyone around him, weary of his left-hand problems, and perversely

lonely for Lankhmar with its wizards and criminous folks, its smokes (so

different from this bracing northern sea air) and sleazy grandeurs. The night

before last he'd wandered into the Sea Wrack, Salthaven's chief tavern since

the Salt Herring had burned, and discovered a certain comfort in observing the

passing scene there while sipping a pint or two of black ale.

Although called the Wrack and Ruin by its habitues (he'd learned as he

was leaving), it had seemed a quiet and restful place. Certainly no

disturbances, least of all by his berserks (that had been last week, he

reminded himself -- if it had really ever happened), and he had found pleasure

in watching the slow-moving servers and listening to the yarning fishers and

sailors, two low-voiced whores (a wonder in itself), and a sprinkling of

eccentrics and puzzlers, such as a fat man sunk in mute misery, a skinny

graybeard who peppered his ale, and a very slender silent woman in bone-gray

touched with silver who sat alone at a back table and had the most tranquil

(and not unhandsome) face imaginable. At first he'd thought her another whore,

but no one had approached her table, none (save himself) had seemed to take

any notice of her, and she hadn't even been drinking, so far as he could

recall.

Last night he'd returned and found much the same crowd (and the same

pleasant relief from his own boredom), and tonight he found himself looking

forward to visiting the place again -- after he'd been to the harbor and

scanned south and east away for _Seahawk._

*.4.*

At that moment Rill came around the next corner and hailed him

cheerily, waving a hand that showed a red scar across the palm -- memento of

an injury that had created a bond between herself and Fafhrd. The dark-haired

whore-turned-fisherwoman was neatly and soberly clad --a sign that she was not

at the moment engaged in either of her trades.

They chatted together, at ease with each other. She told him about

today's catch of cod and asked after the Mouser (when now expected) and his

and Fafhrd's men and how Fafhrd's stump was holding up (she was the one person

he could talk to about that) and about his general health and how he was

sleeping.

"If badly," she said, "Mother Grum has useful herbs -- or I might be of

help."

As she said that last, she chuckled, gave him an inquiring sidewise

smile, and tugged his hook with her scarred forefinger, permanently crooked by

the same deep burn that had left a red track across her palm. Fafhrd smiled

back gratefully, shaking his head.

At that moment Pshawri came up with Skullick behind him to report on

the day's work and other doings, and after a moment Rill went off. Some of

Fafhrd's men had found employment on the new building going up where the Salt

Herring had stood, a couple had worked on _Flotsam,_ while the remainder had

been cod-fishing with those men of the Mouser's who were not on _Seahawk._

Pshawri made his report in a jaunty yet detailed and dutiful manner

that reminded Fafhrd of the Mouser (he'd picked up some of his captain's

mannerisms), which both irritated and amused Fafhrd. For that matter all the

Mouser's thieves, being wiry and at least as short as he, reminded Fafhrd of

his comrade. A pack of Mousers -- ridiculous!

He stopped Pshawri's report with a "Content you, you've done well. You

too, Skullick. But see that your mates stay out of the Wrack and Ruin. Here,

take these." He gave the young berserk his bow and quiver. "No, I'll be

supping out. Leave me, now."

And so he continued on alone toward the Sea Wrack and the docks under

the bright twilight, called here the violet hour. After a bit he realized with

faint surprise and a shade of self-contempt why he was hurrying and why he had

avoided Afreyt's bed and turned down Rill's comradely invitation -- he was

looking forward to another evening of watching and spinning dreams about the

silent slender woman in bone-white and silver at the Wrack and Ruin, the woman

with the so-distant eyes and tranquil, not unhandsome face. Lord, what

romantical fools men were, to overpass the known and good in order to strain

and stretch after the mysterious merely unknown. Were dreams simply better

than reality? Had fancy always more style? But even as he philosophized

fleetingly of dreams, he was wending ever deeper into this violet-tinged one.

*.5.*

Familiar voices raised in vehemence pulled him partially out of it.

Down the side lane he was crossing he saw Cif and Groniger talking excitedly

together. He would have stolen onward unseen, returning entirely to his waking

dream, but they spotted him.

"Captain Fafhrd, have you heard the ill news?" the grizzle-haired

harbor master called as he approached with long strides. "The treasury's been

looted of its gold-things, and Zwaaken who was guarding them struck dead!"

The small russet-clad woman with golden glints in her dark brown hair

who came hurrying along with him amplified, "It happened no longer ago than

sunset. We were close by in the council hall, ready to share the guard duty

after dark (you've heard of last night's apparition?) when there came a cry

from the vault and a blue flash from the cracks around the door. Zwaaken's

face was frozen in a grimace and his clothes smoked ... all the ikons were

gone."

It was strange, but Fafhrd barely took in what Cif was saying. Instead

he was thinking of how even _she_ was beginning to remind him of the Mouser

and to behave like the Gray One. They said that people long in love began to

resemble each other. Could that apply so soon?

"Yes, now it's not just the Gold Cube of Square Dealing we lack,"

Groniger put in. "All, all gone."

His bringing in that roused Fafhrd again a little and nettled him.

Altogether, in fact, he strangely found himself more irritated than interested

or concerned by the news, though of course he would have liked to help Cif,

who was the Mouser's darling.

"I've heard of your ghost," he told her. "All the rest is news. Is

there any particular way in which I can help you now?"

They looked at him rather strangely. He realized his remark had been a

somewhat cold one, so although he was most eager to get by himself again, he

added, "You can call on my men for help if you need it in your search for the

thieves. They're at their dormitory."

"On which you owe me rent," Groniger put in automatically. Fafhrd

graciously ignored that. "Well," he said, "I wish you good luck in your hunt.

Gold is valuable stuff." And with a little bow he turned and continued on his

way. When he'd gone some distance he heard their voices again, but could no

longer make out what they were saying -- which meant their words happily

weren't for him.

He reached the harbor while the violet light was still bright across

the sky and realized with a throb of pleasure that that was one reason he had

been in such a hurry and impatient of all else. The few folk about moved or

stood quietly, unmindful of his coming. The air was still. He crossed to the

dock's verge and scanned searchingly south and southeast to where violet sky

met unruffled gray sea in a long horizon line, with never a cloud or smudge of

haze between.

No sign of a sail or hint of a hull, not one. Mouser and _Seahawk_

remained somewhere in the seaworld beyond.

But there was still time for sign or hint to appear before light

failed. His dreamy gaze wandered to things closer. East rose the smooth salt

cliffs, gray in the twilight. Between them and the low headland to the west,

the harbor was empty. Off in that direction, to the right, _Flotsam_ was

moored close in, while to the left, nearer, was a light wooden pier that would

be taken up when the winter gales arrived and to which a few ship's boats and

other small harbor craft were moored. Among these was _Flotsam_'s small

sailing dory, in which Fafhrd was in the habit of going out alone -- more

training in making do with a hook for a left hand -- and also a narrow,

mastless, shallow craft, little more than a shaped plank, that was new to him.

*.6.*

The violet light was draining away from the sky now and he once more

scanned the southern and southeastern horizon and the long expanse of water

between -- a magical emptiness that drew him powerfully. Still no sign. He

turned away regretfully and there, coming across the dock so as to arrive at

its verge a score of feet from him, where the pier extended into the harbor,

was his silent, tranquil-faced lady of the Sea Wrack. She might have been an

apparition for all the notice the few dock-folk took of her; she almost

brushed a sailor as she passed him by and he never moved. Behind her faint

voices called to her from the town (what were they concerned about -- a hunt

for something? Fafhrd had forgotten) and the shadows came down from the north,

driving out the last violet tones from the heavens. The silent woman had a

pouch at her hip that clinked once faintly while her pale hands drew round her

a silver-glinting bone-white robe that also shadowed her face. And then as she

passed closest to him, she turned her head so that her black-edged green eyes

looked straight into his, and she put her hand into her bosom and drew forth a

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============================================TheKnightandKnaveofSwords[Book7ofthe"FafhrdandGrayMouser"series]byFritzLeiber======================Copyright(c)1988byFritzLeiberrenewed1998bytheEstateofFritzLeibere-readswww.ereads.comFantasy---------------------------------NOTICE:Thisworkiscopyrighted.Iti...

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